


Found

by Pyrosane



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyrosane/pseuds/Pyrosane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean loses Sam, a man named after an angel infringes on Dean's tattered life, and Dean resolves to find the one shred of family he has left in a world that makes a hobby of weighing him down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Found

Purple sprinkles fold under the pressure of Dean's carefully placed thumb. Picking up his latest victims in pastry condiments, Dean leans back, inspecting his handiwork. When the former hunter decides there's nothing interesting to see, he flicks them away.

“Sprinkles, Sammy. I think blue tastes better than purple.”

The words are met with an eery silence, one that clouds over Dean like a cloak.

“Happy Birthday, Sammy.” Dean reaches for a bottle. It's a quarter full, and he takes a swig from it with his left hand.

Dean's left hand is broken.

The liquid slides down Dean's throat, burning and clawing its way through veins that have long since gone to waste. For the eldest Winchester, there is no reason to use a voice that will only be heeded with musky air and the possibility of attracting Croats. But of course, this resolve is shattered with another long, agonizing swig at the bottle full of poison, the bottle full of contents he really should not have begun drinking at the age of fifteen.

“Sam, I'm so sorry. I'm-was-such a shit brother. I failed you, and it's all my fault-” the words come out jumbled, incoherent and slurred among a mind that is beginning to clutter. It's the millionth time this month that Dean has prattled on about his shortcomings, his inadequacy in serving as the human shield he was so dutifully raised to be.

“Sam, I miss you. Truth is, I can't do this anymore. I know you're somewhere up there, Sammy.” In that moment, Dean looks up, so vulnerable, looking like a scared little boy again. And somewhere deep down, past all the alcohol and kills under his belt, he really is.

Letting out a breath he never even knew he was holding, Dean pulls out a shotgun from under the table. Its cold end is a bittersweet contrast with Dean's calloused fingers, warm from the blood of Croats he had taken out moments before he bought the cake.

He really did buy it.

No, he didn't have to, but he felt he owed it to Sam. So he spent the last twenty dollars he had to his name and threw it at a deserted counter within a vacant grocery store.

The cake was a nice one, too. It was chocolate, just the way Sam had liked it when they were kids, and Dad was actually home for Sam's birthday.

“Sam, I'm coming. See you soon.” Those words should have been Dean's last. He shuts his eyes as he places the weapon under his chin, pulling the trigger.

The loudest crackle goes off, and after a while, Dean opens his eyes.

_Shouldn't I be in heaven?_

Dean gets up and looks around. The small room that he had scavenged for himself looks exactly the same. A wooden table camouflaged with dust and chipped corners stands perfectly still to his right, just as hollow cans of gasoline adorn the space to his left.

An anger wells up inside of Dean, because it's as if he's been cursed.

“What am I, a fucking elf? I want to die!” He curses. “I _want_ to _**die**_!” Kicking over the empty cans, Dean makes quick work of making the room a mess, one to match the level of his life. He goes on for what seems like days, months, years even, not stopping when his muscles are sore and his knuckles leave a fine trail of blood where they make an impact.

He doesn't stop until something sharp and cold digs into the base of his neck, stopping him short and reclaiming his senses, his humanity.

“You might wanna slow down there, boy, no need for them Croats to start sniffin' this fresh blood.” For the first time in forever, Dean lets out a small, exasperated laugh in spite of himself. He knows it's a knife, most likely six to seven inches, that is threatening to cut him open. As if something that simple and stupid would have any effect on him.

“Do it.” Dean prompts the stranger.

“Nah, that would be givin' you the easy way out. Death is something you gotta earn, boy.”

Dean is enveloped in sudden rage, because he thinks over and over again how Sam did _not_ ask for death, Dean did _not_ ask to be kept alive, and this idjit would _not_ just shut up and kill him.

The former hunter spins around.

It takes a total of less than five seconds before Dean is glaring at the stranger, knife now clutched in Dean's right hand like an omen, shaking the other man with a fierce grip that will surely leave bruises on the skin.

“What do you know about death, huh? You want me to teach you something about death? Death isn't merciful; it will climb out of every gutter until it has its hands on you. It will take everything, _everything_ away from you, and, and-” Dean can't find it in himself to finish. Instead, he embeds the knife into the table, and realizes vaguely that everything he had just said about death wasn't true.

“Death? Death enjoys pies and pickle chips.” Dean comments, not daring to look up. Lost. That's how he feels, because it wasn't Death that took Sam, it was a misplacement of fate.

He waits for the stranger to say something, but someone else beats him to it.

“Knox, is everything okay in here?” Immediately, Dean finds that he likes the way this new voice sounds. It's low and flat, one may even argue monotonous, but to Dean, it renders something of a calming quality, which Dean very desperately needs in his life.

“Everything is fine, Cas. Found another survivor, that's all.” Knox has barely finished his sentence when Cas walks over to Dean abruptly, peering over his shoulder and squinting. For Dean, it's almost amusing, the head tilt and the look of confusion that spreads across Cas's face when Dean finally turns around to face him.

“Well, are you going to say something?” Dean demands.

“I think he would make a good addition to the group.” Cas says, not bothering to look over his shoulder in addressing Knox.

“What group? Woah, slow down there skip, I never agreed to be a part of any group of yours.”

“A group. Of survivors.”

“Look, I know what a group is, alright? And I don't want any part in it.”

“My name is Castiel.” At this point, Dean is slightly annoyed, but not angry. Curiosity begins to well up somewhere in his chest, but he quickly works to suppress it.

“And I'm Frodo Baggins.”

“Hello, Frodo.” The reference seems to sail right over Castiel's head, much to the dismay of a disappointed Dean. He shakes his head and waves it off.

“Dean. That's my real name. And like I said, just leave me alone, I've got more important things to do than dwell with a bunch of boy scouts in some forest.”

The look of confusion revisits Castiel's face, blue eyes a mixture of wonder and slight bewilderment.

“I'm not sure killing yourself is a constructive use of your time, Dean.”

 _Jesus_ , Dean thinks, _does this guy always talk like this_?

Finally, he gives in. There's no point in stalling, and he's officially out of resources. Maybe he'll even have a chance to steal some weapons before he disappears, going on one last Kamikaze mission to search for Sam.

“Okay, fine. I'll be a part of your little group. But I get to bring my car.”

“We have cars at-” Castiel begins, but Knox interjects.

“Sure thing, kid.”

Dean heaves a sigh. He has no idea what he has just gotten himself thrown into, but he may as well tough it out, starting there and then.

 


End file.
